And the Feathers Flew
by Dominique Heureuse
Summary: Maturity is overrated--just like keeping one's feelings in check. (Vignette)


DISCLAIMER: In all honesty, you would have to be certifiably and psychologically mad to initiate litigation against me. I have literally NOTHING but this computer and I claim no ownership. Leave them to those who deserve the blame….  
  
SUMMARY: The pillow-fight cliché taken to a whole new level…. Just wait!   
  
RATING: PG-13 (I live for moderation in all things—including expletives and obscenities. Nothing especially objectionable, I promise.)  
  
AND THE FEATHERS FLEW  
  
Dominique Heureuse  
Dana Scully sipped hesitantly at her glass of water and glanced sideways out of her peripheral vision. Whether merely to observe or (less often) to admire, it was difficult to lay eyes on her partner without worry of his suspicions. Mulder looked askance as well, noticed her gaze upon him, and prodded her gently in the shoulder.  
  
"You okay, Scully?"  
  
She nodded, and gestured with an extension of the neck toward the door of his apartment. "Thought I heard something." She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could manage, and returned her gaze reluctantly to the screen.  
  
Mulder stretched his legs farther ahead of him and kicked a few pillows absently to her side of the floor. Scully shrank back instinctively, but finally lifted her feet to accommodate the new pillows. Suddenly Mulder frowned almost palpably, and his mood shifted abruptly. She felt him tense beside her and glanced over.  
  
Hazel eyes met blue and affectionate tension strung anew in the air. "You're stealing my pillows, aren't you, Scully?"  
  
Scully resisted the urge to laugh aloud and endeavored to muster her own acting skills into a reasonable performance. He was a damned good actor when he tried, but especially so where teasing her was concerned. While he never truly ridiculed her, there could be no harm in affectionately humiliating teasing amongst friends. And what were they if not friends as well as partners?  
  
"Why, goodness me, no," she replied, her voice possessing a dripping, saturated, syrupy quality. "How dare you accuse me of such a heinous crime?"  
  
"Ooh," he murmured pack, pitching his voice lower than usual. " 'Heinous,' eh? There's a million-dollar term. You're out to show me up, Scully."  
  
"The question," she retorted coolly, "is not whether I can show you up in this instance. It is, during what instance have I not shown you up?"  
  
Mulder brandished a clenched fist threateningly, and the Saturday Night Live rerun was forgotten, as was the gargantuan mound of paperwork on his desk and the typical post-case toil that lay ahead of them the upcoming day. "You're asking for it, Scully."  
  
"Am I, Mulder? Am I really?"  
  
She stifled a giggle at the aggravated contortions which twisted his face; nothing, to Mulder, was more obnoxious than the unduly-assumed attitude of a poor psychoanalyst. "Need you ask, Scully?"  
  
"I don't know, Mulder. How do you feel about my asking?"  
  
Mulder shoved a handful of stale, over-salted popcorn in his mouth and set the bowl aside. "You wanna talk about feelings, Scully?"  
  
"Yeah," she defied. "I do. How does that make you feel, Mulder?"  
  
"Dunno, Scully. Maybe we should be asking how your asking me makes you feel."  
  
"But what about how your asking me how my asking you makes you feel?"  
  
"But what about how…" Mulder stopped in mid-sentence and clutched his hands to his temples, shaking his head and moaning. Scully gave a triumphant laugh and clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
"Give it up, partner. I always win the word games."  
  
When he lifted his head and met her eyes, his gaze was dangerous. "That you do, Agent Scully. That you do." His finger slowly uncurled and began to move slowly and deliberately toward her feet.  
  
"Mulder…." She attempted to convey amused warning in her voice. "What are you doing?"  
  
He said nothing, but during the duration of his hand's movement, kept his eyes locked with hers.  
  
"Mulder…" That hand was awfully close now. "What are your intentions with my feet?"  
  
One finger brushed her sock-clad left food. "You know I never have honorable intentions, Agent Scully."  
  
"Precisely why I ask."  
  
The fingers splayed over her foot and remained motionless. "And how does having your foot violated make you feel, Agent Scully?"  
  
"Like kicking you right in the—"  
  
He was quicker than she had ever imagined he could be. In a span of milliseconds, the stack of pillows had been disrupted and fallen beneath her feet, leaving her legs crossed uncomfortably on the floor. Mulder sprang nimbly to his feet and stood poised above her in a crouched, predatory position.  
  
"How long's it been since you indulged in a good old-fashioned pillow fight, Agent Scully?"  
  
She gauged the distance between herself and the nearest pillow—resting under his desk where he had initially kicked it—with her eyes and returned her gaze to him. "Too long, Agent Mulder."  
  
The pillow came down in a flash, but she was too fast for him. Mulder made an annoyed noise when he realized her body was no longer beneath him, but Scully was already crawling beneath the desk, tunneling under the chair and grasping at the pillows. Her treasure, she soon found, was in fact larger than his. She stood and swung in a wide arc, catching him across the back of the head as he bent to hit her before she could strike.  
  
Mulder made no sound, but feathers flew from the ruptured case of the pillow and when he arose, his eyes looked murderous.  
  
"No holds barred, Scully. This is war."  
  
"So be it." She swung again, but he put out his left hand and caught her pillow in mid-air. Scully gave a shrill, agonized squeal as he yanked it from her grasp and then swung with his own pillow, catching her right across the abdomen and making her stagger.   
  
Violence ensued.  
Scully's flame-auburn hair was tousled as she held her weapon of choice—an utterly deflated, de-feathered and enfeebled pillow—above him. Mulder lay on his back, sprawled uncomfortably, grinning broadly.  
  
"So you won."  
  
"So I did." She squirmed self-consciously when she realized what a fright she must look, but attempted to console herself by returning to an eight-year-old's characteristic frame of mind. Tomboyish Dana had never agonized over what her hair must look like while waging wars in the virtuous name of sibling rivalry, and she saw no need to do so then.   
  
Mulder kept his eyes locked with hers, and Scully realized that her body temperature was rising dangerously. She itched to remove her sweatshirt, or to open a window—anything to relieve the room of its suddenly and oppressively stifling atmosphere. Mulder's intuition remained at its strongest; his eyes narrowed and he looked her up and down.  
  
"You appear to be feeling some discomfort."  
  
She swallowed, acutely aware of his position relative to hers. "I'd call it the elation of victory, myself."  
  
He clasped a hand to his heart. "You wound me, Scully."  
  
"Entirely my intention, Mulder. Entirely my intention."  
  
"Ah, but Scully…" He raised a gentle hand to brush the stray locks of hair behind her ears. Scully clenched her jaw and forced herself to drag her attention away from his eyes and his face—anywhere but him. Rational thought seemed to abandon her brain. "…you were always the nice one."  
  
The finger traced along her jaw.  
  
"The compassionate one."  
  
The finger dragged its way around her throat and came to rest behind her neck, tangled in her hair. Slowly, but with a discernible pressure, he was drawing her down toward the floor, toward him.  
  
"The rational one."  
  
Scully could stand it no longer. She kissed him. 


End file.
